A four-inch thick door of solid oak was no match for the mayor's demand. “Come in, will you!” Strutting sideways into Mayor Sperkins' office with all the swagger of a fish-eyed James Bond, Detective Pilchard tossed his fedora towards the hat stand; he missed, sending the stand crashing to the floor in a shower of brain attire.

  “Madam mayor,” he bowed, grovelled up to his beloved mayor's desk, took a seat; the mayor immediately told him to put it back, for she could not abide thieves, and especially not fish-faced detective-thieves and their witticisms!

  But that was Mayor Sperkins for you – all heart, and all of it black. Dressed like a miserable spinster with a chip on her shoulder and several more on her face, a stickler who divided her time between salting flowerbeds, whacking clowns and shooing children from the public library with a trident, she was every inch the bureaucrat; and I mean that literally. The only time she was taller than a thimble when she was in heels, such as the previous day in the bank's vault, when she'd swung said heel up (and into; like really deep) Detective Pilchard's said backside. Indeed, his swollen rear still pained him greatly; yet this did not deter him from addressing his mayor as formally as one with a sore botty.

  “You will be pleased to know, madam mayor,” he and his botty said grandly, “that I have already begun making inquiries into the whereabouts of the city's missing tax returns.”

  Mayor Sperkins was not pleased to know. Having consulted the incident report regarding the previous night's robbery, and the progress of the detective's investigation thereafter, the tightly wound wench-like woman whinged, “And quite a job you've made of this case already, detective.” She again consulted the report; like a judgment in court she read from it aloud, “'Three upturned trash cans, two critically injured Vault Attendants of the Very Highest Order', one written off police car,' and that doesn't count the destruction your friend did to the bank itself! Do you know how much damage a molten crumpet does to a supporting wall, Detective Pilchard?”

  Unfortunately Detective Pilchard did, he all too aware that Crumpet-Hands Man had a rather hapless habit of leaving a wake of collateral damage wherever he went; such was the genesis of Trifle City's fabled Crumpet Crater, the world renowned Leaning (precariously) Tower of Trifle; and never mind the time our hero had castrated a water fountain of Cupid because, “That little devil was weeing in public! Without a permit!”

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Mayor Sperkins set down the report, expelled a sigh, slumped wearily down behind her desk; she then got up again and slumped wearily down on a chair behind her desk, for in this position she found her view of the detective was less obstructed.

  “Look/listen, Pilchard,” she said, looking him square in the eyes/ears, “although I hate to admit it, you and your skew-whiff face are a credit to the force.”

  “Awww, you are too kind,” the detective swooned, blushing like a big red beetroot. (With big red eyes in its blah.) As jolly as a old turnip, the mayor continued, “But you must understand that this case with the bank is simply a too delicate a political matter for an officer of your pay grade. I'm sorry, but I just can't risk having you involved. You do understand?”

  The patronising nature of the mayor's insinuation was hard for Detective Pilchard to hear, (due in no small part to his aforementioned ears and their congestion of pupil, etc); but he would not be pushed aside so easily! “Look,” he said, rising, thumping the mayor's desk with his fist, missing twice, “just give me twenty-four hours. Allow myself and Crumpet-Hands Man to follow up on our leads and further investigate the bank, and then the two of us ca–”

  “Oh no!” the mayor cut in. “You are not to be seen anywhere near that abhorrent vigilante!”

  “Abhorrent! I'll have you know that I smell perfectly acceptable.”

  Mayor Sperkins glanced down under her desk; our not-too-inconspicuous hero waved back from between her thighs.

  “Hi-ya!” waved the waver. “Were you expecting someone else, Madam Mayor?”

  “No,” said said mayor. “I knew it was you, Crumpet-Hands Man. You've been hiding under my desk all morning. You said hello to me when I sat down. You remarked or my fragrance. My secretary even offered you a cup of tea.”

  “Minus a biscuit,” our hero bemoaned with an audible slurp and Ahh. “But no matter,” he declared, rolling out from under the mayor's desk, hurling his teacup against the wall, missing. “Said-said Mayor, Madam Mayor, the detective and I both have important matters to discuss with you.” As a sign of unity our hero placed a crumpety-hand upon his partner's shoulder. Deeply touched, a single tear rolled down the detective's eyelobe. The mayor's ears remained parched and haughty.

  “I should call security and have the pair of you removed this instant,” she threatened, reaching for the intercom on her desk. “Security, bring me two Mayor's Office Intruder Removal Attendants of the Very Highest–”

  Cutting short her demand a discus of crumpet smacked the mayor's uppity finger away from the intercom.

  “Please, my good mayor,” our hero said, blowing the cordite from his palm. “Permit us if you will just five minutes of your time. Once you have listened/seen what we have to say, you may do with us as you wish.” If only to sweeten the deal, out hero gave the mayor his biggest babiest eyes-wide, “Pleeeeease.”

  Faced with such pitying pleads, what could she say, other than, “Oh... Oh all right then.”

  It was either that or vomit.